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GETTYSBURG 



THE BATTLE OF 

GETTYSBURG 



From 

THE WORLD DISARMED" 



By 
J. FRANK HANLY 



Cincinnati : Jennings and Graham 
New York: Eaton and Mains 






Copyright, 1912, 
By Jennings and Graham 



£CU301)G50 



»fc^ 



IN EXPLANATION 



No indictment of war is com- 
plete without an exhibit of a battle 
scene. That this accusation may 
be a full, true, and complete present- 
ment, I submit such a scene, and it 
is difficult to conceive a greater, a 
severer, or a more terrific arraign- 
ment of war, with its madness, its 
frenzy, its horrors, and its atrocities, 
than the picture constitutes. 
Here it is: 



GETTYSBURG 



BEFORE THE BATTLE 

June 30, 1863 



Scene: A Pennsylvania Village. 
Hour: A Mid-Summer Evening. 

West of the village, running north and 
south, an elevated ridge, covered with an 
open wood. On this ridge, an academy 
and a seminary of a Christian Church. 
To the north, a mile and a half away, 
a commanding knoll — Oak Hill, sloping 
gradually to the west five hundred yards 
to another ridge — McPherson's, wider, 
smoother, and lower. Oak Hill is their 
intersection, commanding a clear view of 
the slopes of both ridges and of the valley 
between. 

North of the town, flat and open country. 
On the south, a bold, high ridge, bowlder- 
strewn and rock-ribbed, terminating on the 

[13] 



GETTYSBURG 

east in a well- wooded hill — Gulp's Hill — 
and on the west, overlooking the town, in 
another hill — Cemetery Hill, on the crest 
of which is the village cemetery. 

From this hill to the south, for a mile and 
a half, runs a ridge — Cemetery Ridge, 
sloping gradually to the west and the south. 
Near the western base of Cemetery Hill, a 
grove — Zeigler's. Nine hundred yards to 
the south, on Cemetery Ridge — a clump of 
trees. About this clump of trees the ridge 
is smooth and open. Three-quarters of a 
mile away it terminates in a high, rocky, 
bowlder-covered hill — Little Round Top. 
Further to the west and south, but closely 
connected, is Big Round Top. 

Fourteen to sixteen hundred yards to the 
west. Seminary Ridge, lying in full view. 
West of Little Round Top, five hundred 
yards, and one hundred feet lower, a pile of 
huge rocks and bowlders so flung together 

[14] 



GETTYSBURG 

as to form innumerable crevices and holes 
large enough for men to shelter in — Devil's 
Den. The slopes of Little Round Top are 
covered with gigantic bowlders. Near its 
base, marshy land. Immediately west of 
Devil's Den the country is wooded, and 
west and north, eleven hundred yards, a 
large peach orchard. South of the peach 
orchard, a wheatfield. The valley between 
Cemetery and Seminary Ridges presents 
rolling slopes of pasture, in which cattle 
are grazing; undulating fields of growing 
corn and squares of ripening wheat, inter- 
sected and separated by fences of posts and 
rails and stone, and dotted here and there 
with houses and orchards and barns and 
gardens; the whole constituting a scene of 
quiet ease and plenteous contentment; a 
panorama of unusual beauty, typical of 
Pennsylvania pastoral life. 

About it all the enamored sunlight ling- 

[15] 



GETTYSBURG 

ers, loathe to leave, kissing ridge and valley 
into mellow, changing beauty; flecking the 
pasture slopes with dappled shadows; turn- 
ing the wheatfield into a lake of gold; 
touching the peach orchard with particles 
of filtered amethyst; hanging the oak 
boughs with threads of light; wreathing 
Zeigler's grove and the Clump of Trees in a 
film of velvet air; spreading a sea of purple 
about the wood-draped hills; tipping the 
Round Tops with celestial glory, and lifting 
between their crests a bending bridge of 
sapphire — and above it all, a serene and 
peaceful sky. The perfect close of a per- 
fect day! But the sunlight does well to 
linger. It will never again find these 
fields and hills the same. It will return, 
but they shall be different. Their peace 
will be broken, their beauty defiled, their 
loveliness despoiled. The morning's earli- 
est dawn brings the change. A human 

[16] 



GETTYSBURG 

cataclysm breaks over them like a torren- 
tial flood. Over and across them it rolls 
and flows like an avalanche. Its shock is 
like the earthquake's. One hundred and 
sixty thousand armed men meet with an 
impact that shakes the continent. For 
three days they wound and kill until one- 
fourth their number fall, injured or dead, 
and the living drop from exhaustion. The 
little cemetery on the hill widens and 
spreads until ten thousand dead find sepul- 
cher, and ridge and valley, hill and plain, 
are one Necropolis. 



[17] 



FIRST DAY 

July 1, 1863 



The tragedy begins with the morning and 
continues with the fury of a tempest 
throughout the day. The agonies of na- 
tions are in it — of Ufe, of death, and of 
birth — the Hfe, or the dismemberment and 
death, of one; the birth, or the miscarriage 
of another. 

At first, a few scattered, uncertain, hesi- 
tating shots betw^een the scouts and pickets 
of Heth and Buford — the videttes of the 
gathering hosts; and then the steadier roll 
of connected conflict between augmented 
numbers, deepening gradually into the 
clash and roar of deadly battle — the impact 
of divisions and of corps — quickening the 
march of thousands of weary feet, calling 
Lee and Meade to the fatal field, and draw- 

[21] 



GETTYSBURG 

ing two armies to its red bosom. Reynolds 
arrives and falls. Howard takes command. 
Upon him bursts Swell's storm of war. 
Paul is wounded, both his eyes are out. 
Rhodes sweeps southward from Oak Hill. 
Stone and Weister are wounded. Hundreds 
fall. Williams is dead. Gordon strikes 
Howard's right flank, taking it obliquely 
from the rear. Barlow is desperately hurt. 
Beneath the concentrated fire from front 

and flank the heroic lines break and dis- 
solve. Leaving their dead and wounded, 
they find refuge at Cemetery Hill. It is 
evening. The first act of the tragedy is 
closing. Lee is on the ground. On the 
other side Hancock is in command. The 
twilight deepens. The tired and wounded 
divisions sleep on their arms in the ranks. 
The dead and injured lie where they fell. 
The dead, unconscious of sky or star or 
dew. The wounded, keenly conscious, do 

[22] 



GETTYSBURG 

not want to die. Some of them crawl and 
drag themselves to shelter. Others are 
rescued by sympathetic comrades or gener- 
ous foes. But hundreds of them turn their 
sad, imploring eyes to the sky, and lie 
through the night among the slain, un- 
found, with no companions but the stars. 
Others pass away in the silent watches be- 
tween the midnight and the dawn, to find 
amid the shadows of the other side the 
peace denied them here. But death has 
scarcely yet begun to take its toll. Its 
appetite is only whetted. To-morrow it 
will reap a real harvest. And the next 
day! Ah, God forgive! The next day it 
will glut its jaws with victims! 



[23] 



SECOND DAY 

July 2, 1863 



The hour is three-thirty in the afternoon. 
Both armies are in position. The Federals 
are stretched along Cemetery Ridge from 
Gulp's Hill to Cemetery Hill, past Zeigler's 
grove, the Clump of Trees, and up to Little 
Round Top. 

The Confederate lines extend from the 
woods in front of Little Round Top, along 
Seminary Ridge, through the town and 
around to the front of Culp's Hill. Divi- 
sions and corps have been arriving and 
going into position on either side through- 
out the night and all the day. The stage 
at last is set. Lee and Meade are both on 
the field. Little Round Top is the key to 
the Federal position. Lee has determined 
to possess it. Longstreet's divisions are 

[27] 



GETTYSBURG 

ordered into action and the struggle for its 
possession begins. Starting in the woods 
in front of it, the fighting reaches Devil's 
Den, spreads to the Peach Orchard; rolls 
through the Wheatfield, and breaks at 
last along the slope and upon the crest of 
Little Round Top itself. 

Hood is soon in hot contention. His 
division sweeps out of the woods, up to 
Devil's Den, around it and over it, fighting 
among the bowlders, breaking the Federal 
lines and pushing them to the foot of Little 
Round Top, to be in turn hurled back to 
Devil's Den. The fighting is tremendous. 
Men and officers are stricken by hundreds. 
Hood is wounded. Brook is disabled. 
McLaws and Kershaw are involved. Both 
are desperately engaged. A hundred can- 
non join in the noise and slaughter. At 
the Peach Orchard the battered Confeder- 
ate line staggers, reels and is bent back. 

[28] 



GETTYSBURG . 

The Federals rush through its thinned 
ranks. But the Confederates meet them 
in a terrific counter-charge. The hues 
coUide. They fight hke demons. The 
slaughter is terrible. The Peach Orchard 
is riddled, as the wave of battle rolls 
through it on into the Wheatfield. Sickles 
is frightfully maimed. Zook is killed. Back 
and forth, across the Wheatfield, the red 
tide ebbs and flows, amid a raking fire of 
shell and canister. Anderson is wounded. 
Swanson falls, expiring. Meade's horse is 
shot from under him. Willard is dead. 
The very air is quick with pain. The 
valley, choked with war. The din is in- 
cessant. The confusion, indescribable. 
Wild, discordant sounds rend the air — the 
rattle of rifles; the scream and crash of 
bursting shells; the shouts of commanders; 
the roar of cannon; the cheers and cries of 
enraged and struggling divisions. Men 

[29] 



GETTYSBURG 

run hither and yon; rush to and fro; come 
in contact with one another, fight hke 
maniacs, hand to hand; shout, struggle, 
fall and die, shrieking with mortal agony. 
Air, earth and sky, unite in one universal 
wail of pain and despair. The Blue lines 
are driven backward. Thousands struggle 
with death. Some are sitting up, unable 
to rise, sobbing convulsively. Others are 
binding up their wounds as best they know. 
Some are limping from the field. Others, 
half prostrate, plead piteously for succor 
that can not be given. And others are 
prone upon the ground, cumbered with the 
dead, trampled beneath the feet of the 
living, bruised and broken by the iron rims 
of hurrying batteries and the shod hoofs 
of galloping horses. Biglow's battery has 
remained too long. The Confederates fight 
for its possession, hand to hand. The can- 
noneers meet them with clubbed muskets 

[30] 



GETTYSBURG 

and with hand-spikes. Twenty-eight out of 
one hundred and four of the battery's men 
are killed or wounded; and sixty -five out of 
eighty-eight horses. Nearer and nearer the 
Gray lines fight their way. Barksdale falls — 
he 's dying. Half of Kershaw's brigade is 
swept away, but the survivors do not halt. 
They are out of the Wheatfield. They are 
at the foot of Little Round Top again. 
They climb its slopes, struggling up be- 
tween rocks and trees. They mount it. 
They grapple for its crest, fighting hand to 
hand, in a frenzied struggle to possess it. 
Vincent, Weed, and Hazzard go down one 
after the other. The fury of the conflict 
trebles. The apex of the crest is the point 
of final, terrific, deadly strife. Men drop 
in scores. Half their numbers fall, but the 
Blue lines do not yield. They seem rooted 
to the hill, as immovable as the bowlders 
about them. The attacking ranks are 

[31] 



GETTYSBURG 

shattered into fragments. The Gray hnes 
waver, flesh and blood can not withstand 
the strain. The tide recedes, followed by 
a tempest of musketry and a concentrated 
storm of shot and shell. The conflict at 
last is over and twenty thousand men are 
stretched upon the narrow field, wounded, 
dying and dead — the work of less than five 
frenzied hours! It is evening again. The 
shadows thicken. The hills and valley 
are still with death. 

At the hour of sunset another scene in 
the awful three-days' tragedy is being en- 
acted a mile and a half away. The Con- 
federates fight their way into the first line 
of Federal intrenchments at Gulp's Hill, 
and climb up the steep face of the slope at 
Cemetery Hill under a withering Federal 
fire. They break over the stone wall into 
the Federal works on the brow of the hill 
and reach the crQst, overrunning Rickett's 

[32] 



GETTYSBURG 

batteries, bayoneting the cannoneers, fight- 
ing among the guns. The conflict becomes a 
melee, a personal encounter. Assailants and 
defenders intermingle. They fight with pis- 
tols, with bayonets, hand-spikes, rammers, 
stones, and even fence-rails. Pender is dead. 
Avery is killed. The dead and wounded lie in 
piles about the batteries. Again the strain 
becomes unendurable, too much for mortal 
courage. The Gray lines weaken. They 
are repulsed and driven headlong down the 
slope, with terrific, sickening slaughter. 
And then the night falls — "a night of bod- 
ing silence fraught with terror." The moon 
sweeps into the cloudless sky. The two 
armies sink to rest, weak from the awful 
hemorrhage of countless wounds. The dead 
are left uncounted, the wounded unsuc- 
cored. They lie among the batteries on 
the crests of the hills; in the crevices of the 
rocks at Devil's Den; amid the fallen, 

[33] 



GETTYSBURG 

trampled wheat; beneath the trees in the 
Peach Orchard, and amid the tangle of the 
woods where Hood's division started the 
conflict. The wounded and the dead! 
More than twenty thousand! 



[34] 



THIRD DAY 

July 3, 1863 



GULP'S HILL 



With the dawn the conflict on the 
Federal right is renewed and con- 
tinued until eleven in the morning, 
Geary and Ruger recover their 
trenches after desperate fighting. 
The losses again are heavy. Fif- 
teen hundred dead and wounded 
Confederates lie on the ground in 
front of Geary^s hreast-ioorks alone. 
The very trees are so scarred and 
maimed by missiles that they die 
of their wounds. 



THE CANNONADE 



It is one o'clock. The din and tumult of 
the battle at Gulp's Hill has ceased. A 
foreboding silence settles over the field, en- 
veloping both armies — a pervasive, breath- 
less, portentious stillness, so intense that 
it almost wounds. The shuddering air is 
sentient with dread. The whispering winds, 
voluble with horror. All nature bodies 
forth disaster. The sense of it is in and 
upon everything. All are conscious that 
a last and supreme effort to possess the crest 
of Cemetery Ridge is about to be made. 
All stand expectant. The drama trembles 
to begin. Suddenly a single gun in the 
Confederate center breaks the silence, fol- 
lowed in quick succession by a second; two 
rings of gray-white smoke circle upward 

[43] 



GETTYSBURG 

into the pulsating air; and then the whole 
Confederate front, two miles in extent, 
bursts into flame. From the red mouths 
of one hundred and fifty-eight cannon 
leaps a bursting, withering tempest, strik- 
ing the Federal lines like a death-ladened 
blast from a mighty furnace. For fifteen 
minutes the one-sided cannonade contin- 
ues, volley succeeding volley in rapid and 
unbroken succession. Then eighty Federal 
guns make response, sending their death- 
dealing answer from a line a mile in length, 
across the valley and into the Confederate 
batteries. 

For an hour and a quarter two hundred 
and thirty-eight cannon, massed within an 
area of a single square mile, join in a storm 
that crowds the air with flying missiles and 
the hurtling fragments of exploding shells; 
filling the valley with smoke and flame; 
making the heavens tremble; shaking the 

[ 44 ] 



GETTYSBURG 

solid hills and rocking the earth itself, as 
though it were in the throes of an earth- 
quake. 

The guns vomit an avalanche of fire and 
iron. The roar is deafening. The shock, 
cataclysmal. The shells go hissing and 
screaming from the bellowing throats of the 
guns on either side. Some meet and burst 
in mid-air between the lines, lighting the 
clouds of dense, black smoke with lurid 
snake-like flashes of flame. But enough 
of them reach the ridges to make them un- 
inhabitable. 

The crests of both are seething volcanoes, 
wrapped in flame and in lilac-colored smoke. 
The ground is ploughed with shot, the slopes 
seamed and gashed with metal. The monu- 
ments in the cemetery are overthrown and 
broken. Forest trees are shattered and 
torn. Great oaks are stripped of their 
boughs, and their trunks, riven and splin- 

[45] 



GETTYSBURG 

tered, go crashing to the earth. Every hv- 
ing thing is withered, as with a breath from 
hell. 

Along the center of the Federal lines the 
Confederate shells do horrible execution — 
bursting above the crouching troops and 
among the batteries, the supply trains, 
and the ambulances; dismantling guns, 
shooting off their wheels, blowing up 
limbers, and exploding caissons; breaking 
up Meade's headquarters, wounding mem- 
bers of his staff, sending a horde of camp 
followers in terror to the rear; striking 
down horses and killing men, and piling 
all — carriages, horses, and men — in heaps 
about the batteries. 

At length the Federals gradually slacken 
their fire as though their ammunition were 
exhausted or their batteries disabled. This 
action indicates to the Confederates an 
expected and much-desired condition. Pick- 

[46] 



GETTYSBURG 

ett's, Garnett's, and Pettigrew's divisions, 
formed behind the wood in ranks for the 
charge, have been waiting for it. It is 
herald to the hour of fate. Destiny rides 
into the valley, beckoning the gray, bellipo- 
tent hosts to death and glory on the op- 
posite crests. 



[47] 



PICKETT'S CHARGE 



LoNGSTREET, Unable to speak the order, 
nods assent to Pickett's inquiring plea. 
Both understand the peril and the hazard 
of a charge across the valley against the 
grim, unyielding Federal lines, but both 
are soldiers, familiar with death, accus- 
tomed to obey. Instantly Pickett's pic- 
turesque form straightens in the saddle; his 
sword leaps from its scabbard, flashing 
in the sunlight, and the daring, splendid 
horseman gallops over the crest to the 
head of his column, and leads his division 
forward, followed by Garnett and Petti- 
grew with their divisions — in all fifteen 
thousand men. Formed with a front of 
eighteen hundred feet, in columns three 
lines deep, they advance with easy, swing- 

[51] 



GETTYSBURG 

ing step toward the Clump of Trees in Han- 
cock's line. Skirmishers spring forward 
and deploy in the open field. The first 
line advances with the precision of a parade, 
beautiful in the perfectness of its order. 
One hundred yards to the rear is the second 
line, and back of that the third. Over the 
crest of the hill, down the gentle slope and 
across the undulating fields the majestic 
columns sweep in solid march — banners 
fluttering, swords flashing, bayonets gleam- 
ing. Composed of the tried veterans of an 
heroic army they present a front terrible 
and irresistible — a spectacle impelling and 
magnificent in its grandeur. An involun- 
tary murmur of admiration runs along the 
waiting Federal lines. As the columns 
leave the hill the Confederate batteries 
open with renewed vigor, flinging shells 
over the heads of the advancing lines into 
the Federal batteries beyond. Half the 

[52] 



GETTYSBURG 

distance is covered in steady, rapid ad- 
vance before the Federal fire becomes de- 
structive. At first only single files are 
cut, now and then, here and there, but as 
they come within easy range the Federal 
guns pour upon them a converging, con- 
centrated tempest of shot and shell. The 
batteries from the ridge rake them in front, 
while those from Little Round Top take 
them in the flank, enfilading their lines 
with deadly effect. The gaps in their ranks 
increase. Great openings are torn in them, 
but are instantly filled from the rear. 
Officers and men fall on every side. Yet 
the columns hold their formation and sweep 
on with a steady front. But their ad- 
vance brings them within fatal range. An 
avalanche of canister and shrapnel bursts 
upon them with converging, cataclysmic 
fury, from the entire Federal line, from 
Cemetery Hill to Little Round Top. In- 

[53] 



GETTYSBURG 

stantly the big gaps multiply. The living 
press to the center to fill the open spaces 
made by the dead. The lines shrink to 
half their length. The right of the column 
is torn into shreds. First a battalion and 
then a whole brigade goes down. The 
slaughter is awful. Whole lines are swept 
away. The fearful missiles tear them to 
fragments. All seem to have become food 
for powder. A cloud of smoke and dust 
envelops them like a cowl. Above the 
cloud, into the clear air, fragments of 
bodies, arms, legs, caps, and guns are 
thrown as from a caldron. A moan of 
anguish goes up from the stricken field, dis- 
tinctly heard above the noise of the con- 
flict. Suddenly a west wind lifts the cloud, 
driving it from the field, and the whole 
horrible, sickening scene is limned in the 
sunlight : 

The hot plain covered with the dead and 

[54] 



GETTYSBURG 

the dying; maimed and torn fragments of 
dead bodies, scattered promiscuously, where 
only an instant before living hopeful men 
marched and cheered; broken forms; pud- 
dles of blood; horses and men lying singly 
and in heaps; and over all the continuing 
crash and roar of battle — a terrible, helpless 
slaughter. 

And yet the thinned and shortened 
lines press on — on over intervening fences, 
across pasture, cornfield, and swail and up 
an incline toward the flame-wrapped lines 
on the ridge near the Clump of Trees. 
There the crippled batteries are being with- 
drawn and additional ones put in. This 
done, the artillery fire redoubles. Again 
the columns are torn and shattered, and the 
terrible, decimating slaughter is renewed. 
Half a column disappears as if swept bodily 
off the face of the earth, mown down — 
annihilated. Whole ranks are torn out. 

[55] 



GETTYSBURG 

Men stagger and fall. Some lie still upon 
the ground. Others are writhing in agony 
unspeakable, tearing up the grass with 
stiffening fingers and gnawing the earth in 
delirious frenzy. Field officers are con- 
stantly falling. Whittle is dead. Garnett 
is killed. Kemper, Pettigrew, and Trimble 
are wounded. But the living rush on, 
never stopping their grim advance, not 
even halting. With ringing cheers they 
break into double quick, moving on in 
impetuous charge — an irresistible line of 
flesh and steel. They are almost within 
reach of the coveted crest — now only two 
hundred yards away! Now one hundred! 
Now only fifty! The Federal musketry 
fire has been withheld, but now in an in- 
stant eighteen thousand muskets are dis- 
charged at point blank range, adding their 
murderous fire to that of the artillery, and 
leaving upon the ground a line of dead. 

[56] 



GETTYSBURG 

The shattered first hne halts, dehvers a 
fierce fire of musketry, and is swept away, 
hterally melting beneath the concentrated 
fire of canister, shrapnel, and musket balls, 
poured upon it from the crest of the ridge. 
But the survivors in the second line pass 
over the dead bodies of their fallen com- 
rades, not pausing to consider them or 
even to bear away the wounded. Color- 
bearers fall, but before the humbled ban- 
ners touch the ground they are caught by 
other hands and borne aloft again. Their 
staffs are shot away. Their folds are torn 
and riddled — burned at the cannons' very 
mouths, but in their place caps are lifted 
on the points of swords and bayonets to 
guide the advancing storm. The intrepid 
columns sweep up the declivity like a 
cyclone, so close that the expression on the 
faces of the men can be seen: Features, 
hard and tense; lips, pale and drawn; white 

[57] 



GETTYSBURG 

teeth, set in supreme resolution; eyes, 
aflame with frenzied fury. 

Through the tense air are heard little, 
dull, strange sounds — the impact of lead 
in human flesh; the thud of bullets, striking 
the warm bodies of living men — splashing, 
ripping, sickening sounds. 

On the Federal side Hancock, Gibbon, 
and Webb are wounded, but the defenders 
of the ridge stand firm, redoubling their 
efforts and pouring volley after volley into 
the faces of their assailants. All that por- 
tion of Pickett's division within the im- 
mediate zone of fire melts and disappears. 
A terrific crash of musketry is poured into 
the right of Armistead's column, killing 
and wounding hundreds, but the survivors, 
unawed, hurry to the rear of Pickett's 
center, and all rush upon the stone wall — 
up to the cannons' red-lipped mouths, up 
to the very muzzles of the flaming muskets. 

[58] 



GETTYSBURG 

Their clothes are burned; their beards, 
scorched by powder and exploding cart- 
ridges, but there is neither stop nor pause. 
They strike the crest and drive themselves 
like a monstrous wedge into the Federal 
line with an impact that shakes the very 
hills! 



[59] 



FINALE 



Unafraid of death for the moment they 
possess everything — the stone wall., the 
Clump of Trees, the smoking, heated bat- 
teries. Armistead falls, mortally wounded^ 
at the very wheels of the Federal guns. 
On the other side Woodruff and Roelty 
are dead. Gushing, wounded in both thighs 
continues to fight his battery — fights it 
after all his officers are killed or wounded, 
with only men enough to man a single 
section. Pushing his last gun to the fence 
he fires it with his own hand, into the very 
faces of his frenzied assailants, falling dead 
at the moment of its discharge. Sheldon, 
too, is severely w^ounded, and Milne, mor- 
tally so. There they lie, wounded and 
dead, among their broken guns! Carnage 

[63] 



GETTYSBURG 

and death reign supreme. Scarcely a Con- 
federate field officer is left. But there is 
no pause in the wild, discordant conflict. 
Officers use their pistols. Men club their 
muskets, and batter and bruise one another. 
Thrust of bayonet is answered by swing of 
musket, and crush of flesh by spurt of 
blood and brain. Other regiments rushing 
to the broken point in the Federal line 
swarm around the Confederates, unofficered 
and undirected. The din is awful. Cries 
and oaths mingle with the crack of pistols 
and the rattle of rifles. Voices are drowned 
in the uproar. Commands can not be 
heard. Amid the chaos of the close- waged 
struggle all formation is lost. Confederate 
banners mingle with Federal flags. As- 
sailants and defenders are one disorganized 
mass. The point about the Clump of Trees 
is crammed with men, firing into each 
other's very faces; closing with one another 

[64] 



GETTYSBURG 

in mad fury, hand to hand in mortal com- 
bat; driving their reeking bayonets through 
sphntering bones and the soft, warm tissues 
of Hving bodies. All terror of death is lost. 
Men fairly rush to meet it, grasp at it as 
though it were a boon, catch it in their glad, 
impatient arms, and hug it to their heaving 
bosoms. Possessed by imbecile wrath, they 
fight like demons; tear one another with 
teeth and nails; claw and bite one another; 
bleed and shout and expire; *' atoning with 
their lives for the faults of others!" The 
conflict culminates with fearful rapidity. 
Time is measured by seconds. Men sink, 
despairing, shrieking, frantic. Some of 
them fall face downward, their mouths in 
pools of blood, biting the ground in a frenzy 
of pain and rage. For five awful minutes 
the struggle continues. Then, their sup- 
ports fallen or captured, the Confederates 
turn and flee. The Federals gather in 

[65] 



GETTYSBURG 

pursuit. Guns from every quarter are 
turned upon them. The slaughter is fear- 
ful. Scattered, retreating fragments, torn 
and tossed and prostrated, reel down the 
declivity and across the plain under the 
fire of a hundred guns, where but a few 
minutes before fifteen thousand proud and 
powerful men marched and cheered — seem- 
ingly an irresistible human tide. Not a 
mounted oflacer is to be seen. All but two 
have gone down. Both armies are fright- 
fully hurt. Gibbon's division has lost half 
its strength, and one Federal battery twen- 
ty-seven men out of thirty-six. Forty- 
two Confederates lie dead about the Clump 
of Trees. The Second Mississippi has lost 
more than half its numbers, and a Confed- 
erate artillery battalion one hundred and 
forty-four men and one hundred and six- 
teen horses. Out of the five thousand in 
Pickett's division who started with him for 

[66] 



GETTYSBURG 

the Clump of Trees, fewer than twelve hun- 
dred returned from the fatal crest. Two 
thousand were killed and wounded in front 
of it in thirty minutes. 



[67] 



AFTER THE BATTLE 



The ghastly tragedy is ended. The colos- 
sal, monstrous crime is finished. But we 
have vet to see the wreck and ruin, the 
anguish and the horror of the after-scene — 
its aggregated woe, the sum of its despair. 
Let us go down the shell-sw^ept slopes; 
down to the shot-sown field, trampled by 
hurrying hoof and rutted with hastening 
wheel; down through the valley where 
swept the hurricane; dow^n to the Peach 
Orchard and into the Wheatfield. Down 
to Devil's Den, and up the red hills, along 
the ridges where the battle lines and bat- 
teries were; up to Little Hound Top; up to 
the Stone Wall; up to the Clump of Trees; 
up to the Cemetery among the fallen, 
broken monuments; through the woods 

] 71 ] 



GETTYSBURG 

about Spangler's Spring, and out to Oak 
Hill, the crux of the first day's fight. 
What a scene of devastation it all is: 

Battered canteens and shot-torn knap- 
sacks; splintered rifles, shattered muskets 
and broken swords; wrecked artillery, dis- 
mantled guns, disabled limbers, ruined 
tumbrels, bursted caissons, and crippled 
ambulances, scattered and piled in mixed 
and intermingled heaps. 

Every living thing is sickened and with- 
ered. Vegetation droops. On the grass, 
a crimson dew. In the wheel tracks, red 
puddles. The earth is saturated with blood 
— a mire and mush of dirt and brains, of 
soil and gore, of powder-grimed, flesh- 
kneaded clay. The air is heavy with the 
odor of saltpeter, mingled with the scent 
of human blood and the stench of decaying 
corpses. In parts of the field — scenes of 
the first and second days' battles — ^grave- 

[72] 



GETTYSBURG 

worms are reveling in a feast of putrid, 
dissolving flesh, and over there, among 
the bowlders, vultures are holding ban- 
quets. 

Death is about us everywhere — myriad- 
handed, appalling — supreme in its inevita- 
bleness. The field is filled with corpses — 
thousands of them, literally and actually 
thousands. Here, scattered and isolated, 
their uniforms powder-burned and splotched 
with blood, and there, where the crux of 
the battle waged, are actually rows and 
heaps and hills and mounds of them. The 
whole field is an abomination of slaughter, 
a vast and hideous accumulation of maimed 
bodies and of mangled, bleeding trunks, 
decaying in the hot sunshine and covered 
with swarms of flies. Some of them cut 
in two; some headless, some disemboweled, 
torn and broken with shot and shell and 
shrapnel; stabbed with bayonets, hacked 

[73] 



GETTYSBURG 

with sabers, hammered and bruised with 
clubbed muskets. 

The mutilations are monstrous; skulls 
crushed, brains oozing and spilled; chests 
mashed into pulp; thighs shattered, legs 
broken, arms torn from their sockets; ar- 
teries severed, veins slit; broken jaws; 
bleeding, protruding tongues; noses gone, 
lips bruised; eyes torn out, faces shot away; 
legs, arms, feet, hands, and bodies cut into 
fragments, ripped and torn into shreds. 
Death can be seen in every form; the dead, 
in every attitude. Some prone and stark; 
some sitting upright, propped among the 
fallen; some with up-turned, staring but 
sightless eyes; some with grinning lips, 
parted over set and glistening teeth, sig- 
nificant with purpose. It seems to have 
caught and stamped unalterably upon each 
set countenance the emotion dominant at 
the instant its message was received. On 

[74 ] 



GETTYSBURG 

this one, energy and determination; on 
that one, the resolution of despair; on 
yonder one, the rapture of high resolve. 
This one is white with horror; that one, 
beautiful in its proud defiance. On this 
one, terror indescribable; on that one, the 
tranquillity of painless peace. Here, the 
lips are parted in a smile. There, unutter- 
able sadness has left its seal. One is in- 
expressibly mournful; another, happy in 
its calm repose. Here is a captain. In 
his stiffening fingers, a woman's photograph, 
spattered with blood; on his face, a look of 
love and yearning tenderness. This is a 
colonel. His numbed and stricken hand 
still grasps his sword, unsheathed and bare. 
Fallen from his bosom lies a Testament — 
the gospel of the Prince of peace. 

Here is a baby's likeness, smeared with 
the blood of bruised and bleeding lips. 

And here, a drummer-boy — a mere lad 

[75] 



GETTYSBURG 

— fair, blue-eyed and dimple-cheeked. His 
sweet and wistful face is strangely out of 
place in such a scene. Death, if it had to 
come to one so young and fair, should have 
found him within parental portals, in the 
arms of her who bore him, rather than here 
amid the hellish sounds and scenes of such a 
cataclysm as that in which he fell. And it 
should have called with gentler summons 
than the broken shell that tore this gaping 
wound in his tender breast. 

There are others, almost countless others. 
The Blue and the Gray, mixed and inter- 
mingled — men and officers — blouse and 
shoulder-strap — cap and plumed chapeau. 
All are equal here — leveled by the equality 
of death. 

To some death came swift and sudden 
as a bullet's flight. A painless, convulsive 
moment, and ail was over. But upon 
others it crept with slow and torturing pace, 

[76] 



GETTYSBURG 

reaching for their vitals and finding them 
only after long delay; filling the intervening 
hours with pain and struggle, with hope and 
despair; making each an age of agony and 
of thirst, of frenzy and delirium. 

To others it has been so long in coming 
that they are dying only now. Dying after 
a night and a day of dreadful suffering, 
conscious of life's ebbing tide, yet fighting 
to live, and losing at last, through neglect 
and want of succor. 

Among the dead and the dying are the 
wounded — more than thirty thousand — 
not yet rescued. Some have lain prostrate 
beneath the July sun since yesterday, crazed 
with thirst and fever, pale and unconscious 
from pain and loss of blood, and yet their 
white lips move and moan. 

In this pile of shell-torn human flesh and 
mutilated dead, and in that confused heap 
of twisted and bleeding trunks, are living, 

[ 77 ] 



GETTYSBURG 

breathing men. Wounded and inextrica- 
bly tangled amid the awful human debris, 
they are unable to rise or even to cry out; 
but their weak, white hands still move 
convulsively in mute appeal. 

Mingled v/ith the human dead and 
wounded are dead and wounded horses, hun- 
dreds upon hundreds of them. The dead, 
piled amid the guns of the wrecked batteries 
and among the fallen men, their swollen, 
bulging carcasses befouling the air; the 
wounded, limping across the field with 
broken limbs, galloping riderless in terror, 
or sinking in exhaustion. Some disem- 
boweled, are making frantic efforts to rise, 
entangling their feet in their own entrails; 
their death-cries filling the va^lley with 
trembling, shuddering horror. 

Yonder is a field hospital, improvised 
and crude. For three days it has been 
crowded beyond all capacity with the vie- 

[78] 



GETTYSBURG 

tims of the missile-swept field. Toward 
it the wounded continue to make their en- 
feebled, tottering way, and from ambulance 
and stretcher, upon the ground about it, 
the limp and crumpled forms of maimed 
and pallied men are still being deposited. 
The bruised and battered shadow^s are 
everywhere. Some, walking about; some, 
sitting; some, reclining; some, lying un- 
conscious, stretched where they were laid. 
Some are paralyzed, their backs broken, 
their faces distorted with pain. In others 
are grea.t gaping wounds emitting gushes 
of blood at every respiration. There are 
broken hands and severed fingers, hanging 
by threads of skin; feet crushed into a mass 
of jelly, and cloven skulls with the palpi- 
tating brain beneath laid bare, and rows 
of silent, ghastly dead. 

Outside are piled fragments of flesh and 
bone, heaps of amputated hands and feet 

[79] 



GETTYSBURG 

and legs and arms — the bloodly offal from 
the red tables within. 

Inside are the nurses, the surgeons and 
their assistants, all too few, many times 
too few, for the task laid upon them. The 
nurses, calm and gentle; the assistants, in- 
telligent, comprehending and quick; the 
surgeons, grim, impassive, imperturbable, 
with nerves of steel and hearts of oak, and 
souls knit of bravery's finest fiber. 

There is no time for consultation, scarcely 
for diagnosis. The need and the numbers 
of the wounded are too great. A glance, an 
inspection, quick and instant, and then 
action, purposeful and decisive. The flash 
of a knife, and the naked, quivering flesh 
lies open; the faint rasp of a saw, and a 
limb is severed. Joints are disarticulated 
at a single stroke; arms taken off in three 
motions of the hand. 

Buckets of blood and fragments of flesh 

[80] 



GETTYSBURG 

are caught and borne away and poured 
upon the grass outside. The suffering is 
direful and excruciating. The misery, ago- 
nizing. The groans and moans are piti- 
ful. With the cries of pain and delirium 
are mingled the impatient wail of the wait- 
ing and the death-rattle of the dying. The 
hot, sultry air is heavy with the sweet and 
insipid odor of chloroform. The smell of 
blood is nauseating. The stench of gan- 
grene and the fetor of putrid flesh are be- 
yond endurance. The mephitic breath of 
fever is upon everything. 

In the Wheatfield, at Spangier's Spring, 
and here and there, throughout the red, 
stricken field, the living are beginning to 
sepulcher the dead. Long, shallow trenches 
are being digged just wide enough to re- 
ceive the maimed and broken forms laid 
crosswise in them. There are no burial 
services, no prayers, no songs, no ceremonies 

[81] 



GETTYSBURG 

of any kind, not even a requiem save the 
sighing of the shuddering summer-wind. 
The dead — more than ten thousand — are 
too many. All is hurried haste. Whatever 
is done must be done quickly. The bodies 
of comrades — those who for three awful 
years have shared the privations and the 
dangers of civil war, messmates, and even 
bunkmates — are gathered by the survivors 
and laid in the trenches with the others, 
in long rows, side by side, face upward. A 
blanket or a blouse is thrown over the 
crumpled forms to keep the clods from im- 
mediate contact with their faces, and the 
loose soil is hurriedly thrown in upon them, 
making a covering so thin that the rain of 
the morrow will melt it away in many 
places, leaving exposed protruding feet 
and extended hands, and in some instances 
the decaying trunks themselves. There 
are no outward expressions of grief. No 

[82] 



GETTYSBURG 

lamentations, no tears. The sensibilities 
of the tenderest have been hardened into 
adamant by the frequency with which they 
have faced like experiences on other fields 
— Malvern Hill, Antietam, Fredericksburg, 
Chancellors ville. 

Whenever known the name by which 
each was known in life, and the organiza- 
tion in which he served, is marked upon a 
thin board stuck in the ground at the head. 
But frequently a body is found mangled 
beyond recognition, stripped of everything 
tending to its identification. It is laid 
among the others, and upon the rough 
board at its head is scrawled a single 
word — the only tribute posterity will ever 
pay to him who tenanted it — the simple 
word, "Unknown." When he fell he sur- 
rendered not only his life, but his identity 
forever, giving his all, even his name, as 
an atonement for another's sin. 

[83] 



GETTYSBURG 

The details of the vast and grewsome 
spectacle are repeated and multiplied until 
the heart grows sick and the awed soul 
shrinks in terror. The whole enormity of 
the monstrous three-days' deed wrought 
in this valley and among these hills will 
never be known. It is beyond mortal 
concept. Pen and pencil fail. Speech is 
inadequate. The tongue, dumb and help- 
less. Language can not portray or im- 
agination body forth the awful whole. 

We turn from the fratricidal field — the 
adjective here is aptly used, for the field is 
a fratricidal one in very truth. They who 
struggled here were children of a common 
ancestry, of one blood and of one country, 
speaking one language, loving freedom and 
cherishing liberty for themselves and their 
posterity, and coming not infrequently 
from one community and sometimes from 
one home. It is the irrefutableness of this 

[84] 



GETTYSBURG 

fact that adds so tremendously to the 
pathos and the mournfuhiess of the awful 
scene — we turn from the fratricidal field 
with a feeling of awe, of reverence, and of 
admiration — awe for the dead lying out 
there, reverence for the wounded, and ad- 
miration for the living — for their courage 
and their chivalry. 

We are conscious, too, that out of the bap- 
tism of fire and blood and the holocaust 
of carnage and of woe the Union is rising, 
rising undismembered and unbroken, sub- 
lime in the unity of its forging purpose, 
glorious with the splendor of future en- 
deavor, and luminous with achievement. 
Through the smoke and the clouds we see 
the breaking light of a better, nobler day 
than the Nation yet has known — a day of 
asperities forgotten, of wrongs forgiven, of 
a people reconciled. 

All this we see and are conscious of as 

[85] 



GETTYSBURG 

we leave the valley and climb the hills, but 
down in our heart of hearts and soul of 
souls we know that Gettysburg ought 
never to have been. That what took place 
down there was a colossal, monstrous 
crime. That back of it all some one had 
blundered. That the conditions that seem- 
ingly made it necessary might have been 
different — so different that it, itself, could 
have been avoided. That in spite of the 
valor and the consecration poured upon its 
sacrificial altars, it will forever remain a 
stain upon our history, an indictment 
against the civilization of the age. 



[86] 



REQUIESCAT 



Fold up the banners! Smelt the 

guns! 
Love rules. Her gentler purpose 
runs. 
A mighty mother turns in tears 
The pages of her battle years. 
Lamenting all her fallen sons. 

— Will H, Thompson, 



BATTLE INTENSIFIED 



All that, and more than that, was Gettys- 
burg — fought fifty years ago. Since then 
conditions have changed tremendously, 
more, in fact, than in the preceding three 
hundred years. A pitched battle between 
two or more great nations now would be 
vastly greater both in the numbers engaged 
and in the magnitude of the spectacle pre- 
sented. The fatalities would be incom- 
parably larger; the horrors, many times 
intensified. Indeed, it is impossible to 
estimate the extent of the change or the in- 
crease of the casualties. The augmented 
power of explosives, the multiplied velocity 
of missiles, the enlarged caliber and in- 
creased range of guns, the greater accuracy 
and rapidity of fire, smokeless and noiseless 

[93] 



GETTYSBURG 

powder, and the partial mastery of the air, 
all tend to augment immeasurably the 
losses and the disasters of battle. 

Arms, ammunition, and the mechanisms 
of slaughter have been so improved that 
war between powerful nations now would 
be simple annihilation. 

The modern rifle kills at two miles. It 
repeats its fire many times with almost in- 
stantaneous rapidity. Bullets speed from 
its muzzle in a stream, on approximately 
straight lines, striking all they meet, with 
a velocity that would carry them through 
successive files of soldiers. 

When Gettysburg was fought, only eighty 
to one hundred rounds of ammunition 
could be carried into action. Now, five 
hundred and seventy-five rounds can be 
carried. Musketry fire is forty times more 
effective. 

Cannon have reached a hitherto impos- 

[94 ] 



GETTYSBURG 

sible caliber — ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, 
and even seventeen inches — delivering 
shells equipped with time fuses as perfect 
and reliable as clock-work, and weighing 
from a thousand to two thousand four 
hundred pounds, a distance of from nine to 
twenty-one miles. 

Field artillery is effective at three and a 
half miles. Range-finders give the range 
with precision up to four miles, in three 
minutes. Batteries are operated from de- 
pressions behind hills instead of from their 
crests as formerly, dropping their shells 
upon the point desired with unbelievable 
accuracy. Artillery as a whole is one hun- 
dred and sixteen times more powerful and 
effective than the Federal guns at Gettys- 
burg, and many times more numerous. In- 
stead of two hundred and thirty-eight guns 
in action as at Gettysburg, there would now 
be two thousand. There were more than 

[95] 



GETTYSBURG 

one thousand in action at Sedan, even in 
1871. The Prussians alone are said to have 
had eight hundred. 

Machine guns, not then invented, are now 
capable of such rapid fire as to be able to 
'^sprinkle the field with shot as roads are 
sprinkled with water,'' operating with a 
spiteful, sickening sound not unlike that 
of an automatic riveter in a boiler factory. 

The improvement in ammunition is 
equally wonderful. Shells are composed 
of explosives of terrific and deadly power — 
dynamite, cordite, exrasite, melinite, motor- 
ite, indurite, roburite, and peroxilene. 

The shells used in the Federal guns at 
Gettysburg on explosion burst into nine- 
teen to thirty pieces; modern shells, into 
two hundred and forty. Shrapnel then 
burst into thirty to forty death-dealing 
missiles; now, into three hundred and forty. 
A bomb then burst into forty fragments; 

[96] 



GETTYSBURG 

now, if charged with peroxilene, it bursts 
into one thousand two hundred. 

The storing, transporting, and use of 
such explosives, under fire, are subject to 
frightful hazard; their very presence being 
a continuing and horrible peril. 

Here is Jean de Bloch's picture of the 
effect of a modern shell: 

"A single explosion among the ammuni- 
tion wagons of a battery would make 
splintered chaos of everything — guns, wag- 
ons, horses, and men — a storm of wood 
and soil and iron, of cannon barrels and 
wagon wheels, of torn carcasses, of mangled 
flesh, blood, and brains — hopeless, hideous 
confusion, destruction indescribable." 

The rapidity and accuracy of fire — 
musketry and artillery — are now phenom- 
enal. As many projectiles could be fired 
in the course of a few minutes as were 
formerly fired during a whole battle; the 

[97] 



GETTYSBURG 

best guns being capable of eighty-three 
shots in three minutes. The work of a 
single hour would now exceed, in quantity 
of ammunition and weight of metal de- 
livered, that thrown in the whole three 
days at Gettysburg. 

The effect of all this is to establish in 
front of a line of battle an impassable zone 
of fire, an area of extermination, of at least 
a thousand yards in width, into and upon 
which bullets would fall in handsful — a 
storm of lead and iron constant as hail 
and swift as lightning — an area within 
which no living being could stand; and to 
fall within it would be to die. The wounded 
could not be removed. A charge across it 
like that made by Pickett at Gettysburg 
would be a physical impossibility. His 
divisions would be utterly and completely 
destroyed. Not a fragment of them would 
survive. 

[98] 



GETTYSBURG 

Brief but impressive corroboration of 
this fact is found in a press dispatch from 
Hankow, China, under date of October 
31, 1911: "Of a rebel battahon which faced 
the imperiahst machine guns with intrepid 
tenacity, only two or three escaped. The 
others were mowed down as grass before a 
scythe." 

There is yet another fact that would add 
tremendously to the fatality and the terror 
of a modern battle — the use of smokeless 
and noiseless powder. The screen of smoke 
would be removed from the field. Battle 
would be made in the unclouded light. Its 
terrible consequences would be visible to 
all, with nothing to indicate from whence 
the death-messages came. Marksmen con- 
cealed at a distance of a thousand yards 
would pick men off at will. Their fire 
would be deadly. Every shot would claim 
its victim. Neither smoke nor sound would 

[99] 



GETTYSBURG 

betray their position. Men would fall, 
killed and wounded, dropping in their 
tracks where they stood, without visible 
or audible cause — simply fall and die. 
The soldier would not see or hear the cause 
that deprived his comrades of life. He 
would only see them fall and die, as though 
stricken by an unseen, noiseless hand; by 
a voiceless, invisible bolt from the blue, 
or by the breath of the Almighty. 

Battle under such conditions would be 
terrible in its weirdness, unexampled in 
its horror. The strain on the nerve and 
morale of the men would be all but un- 
endurable. Casualties would be trebled. 
Among the officers they would be so great 
as to destroy all command and direction, 
leaving whole divisions unofficered. x\nd 
an army unofficered under such conditions 
would become a helpless mob, its doom a 
certainty — utter and complete annihilation. 

[100] 



GETTYSBURG 

Compared to battle between powerful 
nations under modern conditions, Gettys- 
burg, with all its fatalities and its horrors, 
was but a skirmish — a battle in miniature. 



[ 101 ] 



LINCOLN 



*' Fourscore and seven years ago our 
fathers brought forth on this continent a 
new nation, conceived in Hberty, and dedi- 
cated to the proposition that all men are 
created equal. Now we are engaged in a 
great civil war, testing whether that nation, 
or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, 
can long endure. We are met on a great 
battlefield of that war. We have come to 
dedicate a portion of that field, as a final 
resting-place for those who here gave their 
lives that that nation might live. It is 
altogether fitting and proper that we should 
do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not 
dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can 
not hollow — this ground. The brave men, 
living and dead, who struggled here, have 

[ 105 ] 



GETTYSBURG 

consecrated it, far above our poor power 
to add or detract. The world will little 
note, nor long remember, what we say here, 
but it can never forget what they did here. 
It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated 
here to the unfinished work which they 
who fought here have thus far so nobly ad- 
vanced. It is rather for us to be here 
dedicated to the great task remaining be- 
fore us — that from these honored dead we 
take increased devotion to that cause for 
which they gave the last full measure of 
devotion — that we here highly resolve that 
these dead shall not have died in vain — 
that this nation, under God, shall have a 
new^ birth of freedom — and that govern- 
ment of the people, by the people, for the 
people, shall not perish from the earth." 



[106] 






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